could not get myself and present sayings and doings out of dream-land. My throat was sore too, as if I had an inflammation there. Preparation and prayers over, I went up to the bedroom; undressed, and lay in the cool sheets, thinking in a vague way about death coming to me sometime soon. The thought was, like everything this evening, in dream-land. I spent a hot sleepless night.
Next morning I went from bad to worse. It was a Saturday. I felt like what I thought a melancholy bird felt, moping with a malady. I went up to my room and lay on my bed till, after about an hour, being thirsty and getting up for some water, I saw my face in the glass over the washing-stand, a scarlet patch upon my right forehead; so bright a scarlet that I wondered a little. I had scarcely lain down again when there was a knock at the door. 'Come in,' I said, and entered—Clayton. I made a dissatisfied noise to myself.
Then he began to ask if I didn't feel well? could he do anything for me? would I like any books from the library? (he could easily get the key from 'monitors' room,' you know), and the rest of it. In the end he went off, and I thought that that was the end of him.
I was dozing when there came a knock again. 'Come in,' angrily from me, and there was Clayton with a pile of books in one hand and a bulging paper-bag in the other.
'I thought you might like some oranges,' he said, putting the books down on the next bed and opening the bag's mouth. I wished him at the devil.—Why can't people leave you alone when you're moping?
After a little:
'You'd better skip first lesson to-morrow.' he said, 'and go æger. You look as though you were sickening for something or other. There's a lot of measles about in the town.'
Another pause. Then up he rose, and saying: 'Well I see you're tired, I won't stay any longer'—had passed the second bed, going for the door, before I got out:
'Thank you for the oranges, but I don't want them, thank you; and for the books too.' I forget the rest
